Over the Rainbow
by gilgameshforeternity
Summary: An AU story about Sherlock and John. Rating will go up. Set weeks after a mysterious viral infection reanimates the dead, John hopes to save his family but finds more along the way. Zombie Apocalypse. Rating will go up.
1. The Meeting

AU. Zombieapocalypse.

(A/N) I don't claim to be an expert at writing these two, but I can't stop imagining them in different situations. There's a chapter story here I know it, now I just have to write it...

(also borrowing from The Walking Dead a little bit, I like their zombie designs)

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><p>He never claimed to be the fastest or lightest person in their feet, but John damn well tried to be. Everyone he knew, which unfortunately wasn't a lot of people, he'd lost contact with 3 days ago and he was beginning to have doubts about their safety. Not that he didn't trust them to act rationally, just that, when hoards of zombies are walking the streets it can be hard to defend yourself when you haven't been trained to.<p>

Breathing quietly, lungs straining in the cold air as he made ever inhale and exhale calculated and steady, John gripped the handgun he'd stolen from a crashed police car. He'd even helped himself to the flashlight and bulletproof vest. If he didn't run into zombies, he'd more than likely run into some crazed, panicked citizen with a happy trigger finger. At night seemed the safest time to change locations, at least, he assumed so from watching their broken puppet behavior. He felt somewhat safe in the shadows, but his heart still drummed a steady beat of fear.

The occasional moan emanated from the streets and he waited minutes in forced silence before finally moving forward to get a better look at the situation. He _needed_ to see his family, needed to make sure they were alright and he was the only one who could comfortably move through the city and keep a level head. Reaching the edge of the alleyway he willed himself to become part of the wall as he peered around the street. He hated to admit it, but he'd take any other normal old boring day to what the world was experiencing now.

Green eyes took in every detail; every single thing that moved and he counted at least 5 walkers milling about in the street, as if waiting for a cab or something. Dropping low John crouched next to a parked car, its doors wide open and engine long since cooled. He was heading in the general direction of his sister's house, but detours and scenic routes had to be made. More than once he'd run into a mass of zombies and more than once he'd been deterred by flaming cars set as road blocks.

Peeking over the back of the car he watched the closest zombie shuffle toward an open storefront, apparently the things were curious, maybe just a little morsel of human flesh was laying around. Spotting the other reanimated bodies he knew he had to be fast and most definitely silent. Travelling by moonlight had its pros and cons, it was easier to hid, but it also made spotting friend from foe a lot harder. Stooping he picked his way down the street before finding another alley that looked good and deserted. Going as far as the end he dropped down behind a dumpster and swung his backpack from his shoulders.

Inside held an assortment of provisions, two large water bottles, dried foods, a first aid kit he'd also scavenged from the police car and a few magazines as backup. Taking a moment to breathe and drink he glanced up at the sky, judging but just how the moon was above them, he figured it was somewhere around midnight. He didn't want to sleep, he knew just what happened when he slept, nightmares wreaked havoc and he couldn't stop himself from making a noise in the middle of one if he wanted to. No, best to only nap and then move on as quickly as possible, he had a destination and he'd be damned if he'd let himself get taken by surprise.

Putting the backpack on he repeated what he'd done in the previous alleyway, the zombies were still a ways down the street and he didn't see any in the immediate area, he'd travel a little quicker this time around. Gun still loaded and adrenaline still pumping John ventured back out, eyes ever alert he made it a habit of next to some kind of barrier, waiting a moment before popping back out again, he continued like this late into the night, never tiring, it reminded him too much of his time over in Afghanistan. If anything, John felt right at home, this was just another form of warfare and he'd been trained like any other army dog to perform and fight within warfare conditions. By the time he finally noticed the sky beginning to lighten he knew he'd need somewhere to hole up in for a few hours.

The street he was currently on had numerous cars parked at odd angles, and the houses all had dark front door with gold numbers, it stretched on for quite a ways. Holstering his gun in the back of his pants he didn't spot anything moving, the pale light of dawn was just beginning to hit the tops of the buildings.

He tried not to get his hopes up as he jiggled the handle of the first door he came to, but of course, locked. Peering around John felt the chill of morning creep over him, the street was just so quiet and he didn't want to ram the door open, too much noise, too easy to be spotted that way. Moving on John hated the zigzag pattern he'd adopted, trying a few doors then heading to the other side of the street to see if his luck would be better. It had been a least a two days since he'd slept and the promise of a safe house so close and yet so far was starting to wear on his nerves. By the twentieth door he was more than aggravated and by the thirtieth he was well past calm, cool and collected. The gold numbers on the door mocked him, the dark finish of the doors reflected back a murky image of himself and he growled under his breath when it became too much.

The door in front of him was about to get a rude awakening as he took a step back and lined up to get a good shot at it. Taking a steady breath he braced his muscles and with a large effort he landed a kick right near the door handle. It had never occurred to his sleep addled brain to try and pick the lock, or continue on and be patient and thorough, no, he wanted in and now. Another good hard kick sent the door flying swinging open; it bounced off the wall behind it loudly and creaked to a stop. Breathing through his nose John gave a nod and mentally congratulated himself for being able to physically kick a door in. Gun out, he crept into the empty home, one sweep of it and it was all clear. Using a chair he closed the door and shoved it under the handle, he also barricaded the door with a large trunk that took a considerable effort to move, but anything to keep himself safe.

By the time he'd locked and shoved another chair under the handle of the bedroom door he was exhausted, the bed looked more than inviting. He didn't think about the people who lived there before, or if they had family or about the fact he was going to sleep in their bed, all he wanted was at least an hour of sleep. Leaving his backpack on the floor and gun on the night table he simple laid down to sleep for a little while.

A little while turned into all day and into part of the night. Now John was good at getting his timing right, he had to when over in Afghanistan, he had to be ready for anything. His mind knew all of this, his body refused to cooperate though, when the soft folds of an actual bed eased the tension on his joints and surrounded him in warmth, sleep turned into halfway coma. He hadn't been dreaming at all, just floating in darkness, but when the world started to shake and some thing was physically grabbing him all his instincts shifted into overdrive and his eyes were snapped open.

The darkness of the room threw him off, how many hours, how many days had he been asleep? And what was that smell? What he registered next sent panic lancing into his chest, someone was leaning over him, hands clasped over his shoulders and shaking him. Immediately he lashed out to get the person or thing off of him but the stranger caught his wrists with an almost inhuman ease.

"Get up now, the reanimated dead is going to swarm over this house in minutes."

Low, jarringly soft tones caught his attention and John took that extra second to make out a head of shaggy hair before the person was leaving. Wait, who even called them the 'reanimated dead'? And what was that horrid smell? In the moments he'd taken to try and get his bearings he heard the bone chilling noise of the moans out on the street, he hadn't made that much noise, had he? Slinging his backpack on and grabbing his gun John spotted the stranger next to the open window of the bedroom.

"Hurry!"

Spurred on by this person he noted that they hadn't robbed him blind while he was sleeping and thanked his luck stars hadn't done anything else. Following after his tall savior John exited out the window into a fire escape and watched as the man easily navigated his way over the grates and steps. Again he was confronted with the fact he wasn't as nimble as he used to be, his knee ached with the changing weather and his shoulder could smart is he wasn't careful with his running about. In minutes they were behind the row of buildings heading out onto another street and further away from the danger, he hoped.

"How did you-"

"I live on that street, you made quite a racket, and you didn't even cover your trail."

John' eyebrows drew together in confusion, his trail? He kept pace with the man, he could see they were making a wide circuit back to the street they'd just left.

"Where are we going?"

"My house, it's safe there."

"Safe, if I wasn't safe then-"

"You were being stupid, that's all there is to it."

The clipped tone left no room for argument and he didn't even bother seeing as how he needed every breath of air to count as they sprinted. It wasn't long till they slowed to a jog and the man seemed more cautious than before. They went on like that for John wasn't even sure how long, their breath streamed out in the chilly air and he was working up a sweat. John didn't even recognize where they were anymore, the buildings blurred together and the streets no longer had names, back alleyways all looked the same and finally the man just stopped.

"There," he pointed up to a window and began his assent over a dumpster and jumped to a catwalk that no longer offered a ladder.

He stared for a moment, taking a deep breath before finally having a crack at it, except he barely made it onto the catwalk and had to be pulled up the rest of the way. When they reached the window his nose scrunched, the scent he'd smelled before was strong there; he could see some kind of dark tar smeared the window's frame.

"Careful not to touch it, its infected blood."

John resisted the urge to retch right then and there as the he registered the same smell had been emanating off the man in front of him, just what in the bloody hell was going on? Gingerly he entered the window and found himself in a quaint little kitchen, a candle here and there to give just enough light he could make out a table filled with an assortment of glassware. The man shrugged off the light jacket he'd been wearing and to John's confusion stuffed it into the fridge before striding away.

He stood there for a moment, his brain catching to just what had happened, went to sleep, woken up by some stranger and then made a daring escape to said stranger's home. Yeah that sounded about right to him. Walking further into the flat he spotted the man next to a window, dark fabric had been tacked up over them and he was peering out through a slit.

"What-"

The man's hand flew up, hand raised for silence before he finally turned around and John could see his features better in the candle light.

"We must whisper."

"Right, um, who are you?"

Pale eyes made one large sweep over him and John felt just a little self-conscious in his bullet proof vest and jumper.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and you're welcome."

"Oh, yeah thanks for that, only meant to sleep for a wink. I'm John, John Watson."

He felt a little silly for having to whisper so much, but the man obviously had his reasons. Sherlock motioned for the man to come over, moving to the side to let him look out the window. John had his reservations about being so close to this stranger, who knew what he wanted? Crossing through the small living room he felt something like fear or anxiety shoot through his body. There was a swarm of zombies, milling about the house he'd apparently broken into.

"How did-"

"They have exceptional hearing and their sense of smell is very acute. Those zombies came from the street over. I didn't see you leave and you looked so promising, couldn't let the chance slip by."

John shot the man an incredulous look and spoke low, "Promising?"

"Yes, military training no doubt, the way you hold yourself and experienced with a gun seeing as how you move with it like it isn't even there. You've been traveling quite a ways, lack of sleep, you're going somewhere important or, to someone important. No visible marks or injuries so you're very careful, no infection I'm positive. The backpack tells me you don't have a material obsession, traveling light. You, John Watson, are a survivor."

He stared into bright opaque eyes and took a steadying breath, "That was…. fantastic."

The briefest of smiles lit onto Sherlock's face, but it was soon dashed and a firm calculating gaze now scrutinized the man before him.

"So, where are you going?"

"My sister's, power's been spotty, haven't talked to her in days."

"Ah, loved ones, yes that is quiet a trifle. You're welcome to sleep here before you move on. My landlady unfortunately succumbed to the infection…"

John listened to the man trail off and then move away, finding something else of greater importance to occupy his attention. He stared down at the street, his stomach gave a lurch whenever he saw groups of zombies together, wasn't natural in the least bit. Letting the curtain close he turned to see Sherlock sitting in the kitchen at the table, scribbling in a notebook as he looked into various containers.

Moving toward the man he noted just how tall and lanky he was, the candles did nothing for his complexion, washing him out like a ghost .Though that wasn't to say he didn't have a pleasing facial structure and intriguing eyes.

"How long have you been here," John asked while wandering around the table. His eyes picked out disturbingly familiar specimens, an assortment of fingers and plenty jars of blood.

"Since the first news reports."

"All by yourself?"

"Yes."

"You must be a survivor too."

"No, just smart. I've been studying the infected for quiet sometime now and I've found some very interesting results."

John was going to ask what but the man, with his dark curls and knowing eyes simply held a notebook out to him. What he read in side astounded him. Apparently Sherlock had been watching _very_ closely. There was a list of tagged zombies, apparently an experiment to see how long they milled around a place for. Sherlock seemed to be very hands on as well, the notes included that he'd marked their backs with varying colors depending on the date. Not only that but he'd also record tons of notes on the looks and behaviors of various zombies. No matter if it was a full body or missing limbs, they felt no fear or pain. Exceptional hearing and sense of smell, but can't tell the difference between a person and a person covered in infected blood. The bare minimum of survival instincts it would seem survived the need to feed and the means in which to help the zombies achieve that.

"Remarkable," John whispered.

"Do you do that often?"

"Wha- oh sorry."

"No, no, it's quiet alright."

Leaning against the small counter John continued to pour over the notes, he'd never seen any data to this extent on the news. This was what he needed, to know his enemy, understand and study its weaknesses. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there before Sherlock finally spoke.

"Tell me John, what did you do before all of this?"

"I was an army doctor, got wounded in the shoulder and knee, they smart a bit-"

"Are you hungry John?"

"Uhm, I suppose."

The evening continued with short conversation and a cold dinner. John took to the couch, a mound of blankets to keep him warm and 'safe', as safe as he could be with zombies milling about outside. It didn't stop Sherlock from wandering the flat though he noted. Stripped of his vest and jacket John found it strange, the feeling of finally having the weight off his chest, and how comforting just the sound of another human being could be. He watched quietly, the candles flickered on the walls and Sherlock mumbled occasionally, or searched the kitchen for something. John fell asleep to the quiet lull of moaning undead and his aching body.


	2. The Spray Paint

Au. Zombie Apocalypse

(A/N) taking some liberties here with how the virus can be spread. (pardon any errors, finished writing this really early in the morning, I'm so tired)

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><p>John could only describe his awakening in one word, panicked. Heart pounding he struggled under the hand that had clamped over his mouth. Wild green eyes locked onto calm blue.<p>

"You're going to wake the neighborhood going on like that," Sherlock deadpanned.

Relief washed over him instantly, no danger at present, just a mildly annoyed Sherlock it looked like and was he making a joke? Exhaling heavily John relaxed back, his muscles ached from the sudden tension and he stared at the dark haired man who'd retrieved his hand but stared at him pointedly.

"Sorry….if I was making noise…nightmares," he trailed off.

That seemed to appease him and he moved away to disappear into the back of the flat. Relinquishing the embarrassment of needing another person to physically quiet him, John stood from the couch, his shoulder didn't seem too bad, but knee ached a bit though. What he wouldn't give for a proper shower, what he wouldn't give to at least stand under a stream of hot water and ease his nerves just a little. Standing by the couch still, stretching and waking up he watched Sherlock come back out, clothes changed, a long dark coat swishing around his legs and a scarf around his neck.

"Going somewhere?"

"Yes, with you," Sherlock answered matter'o'factly.

The man disappeared into the kitchen, grabbing this and that along the way.

"Excuse me what?"

John was quick to follow him, confused and somewhat taken a back that the man just assumed he'd tag along.

"Are you deaf? I'm coming with you."

"I heard you, but why?"

Sherlock turned around, a look in his eye that John wasn't all too familiar with.

"Because I'm not going stay here any longer, surely you can see why it's a good thing I'm coming with you."

Sure, it'd be nice having someone watch his back, someone who knew a great deal more about the undead then he did. Not to mention taking turns while sleep, or having an extra hand when finding food or if there was danger…damn….he was right. Sighing John threw his hands up.

"Fine, fine."

"Glad you see it my way. Get your things, we should've left an hour ago."

Glancing to the shrouded window John could see the edges of it glowing with light, it was daytime. Not bothering to fold the blankets he went about replacing his vest and jacket and grabbing his backpack. John was going to pull it on when Sherlock handed him a bundle of something.

"Carry it with you, food, blanket and bandages. It's unlikely we'll come back soon."

John didn't argue, just placed the items into his backpack and waited by the door as Sherlock made one last sweep around the flat. What struck him as the most strange, was the man walked to the fire place mantel plucked a human skull from its edge and placed it inside his side bag. Weird.

With the heavy weight of the vest and cold reality sinking back in the form of the gun he'd tucked into the backpack's mesh side pocket, John follows Sherlock out of the flat. What little ounce of safety he'd felt fled the moment he was out the window. He continued on, letting Sherlock secure the back entrance before joining his guide back on the ground.

"By your lead," Sherlock swept his hand out, offering the doctor point.

He was used to being up front and alone, but it was different now as they walked through the back alleyway of the buildings. John had the urge to peek behind him, to make sure no wayward zombie was trailing after him, but he knew all he'd find was a pale face and curly black hair. The extra set of eyes, he hoped, would do wonders for his paranoid nerves.

The world is deathly quiet, it's deafening and Sherlock watches, observes the way it crumbles in beautiful decay. He was neither happy nor angry at the pandemic that had crippled great nations, no, like anything else; it was just another thing to occupy his time. If surviving meant figuring things out on the fly, he was going to become as adept to it as making observations about people. It would become second nature, he would thrive and become part of the surviving mass of people around the world, the ones who had been resilient and smart about living.

His eyes caught the brief pause in John's steps, the man paused by the corner of a building and he crowded in behind the doctor. Leaning over, tall enough to peek he could see where his traveling partner was worrying about. Further down the street at a small intersection, with no cars in sight, there were three zombies lingering about.

"John, this is hardly worth waiting for," he muttered.

"Can't be too careful, might be more mucking about we can't see."

"Must we wait? Surely you know if the wind starts up they will undoubtedly follow us."

"Alright, alright. That alley across the street, there's a fence we can hop, make sure they can't follow even if they do smell us."

"I hope you plan to be quieter than you were breaking into that house."

John bites back a retort as he watches the zombies shuffle around.

"A good brisk walk across the street and over the fence, yes?"

"Let's get on with it."

He waits a little longer, for at least two of the zombies to face pretty much away from them. Motioning his his hand he breaks cover at a quick pace, he hadn't even noticed his heart pounding till he felt his breath quicken too. The damn things were slow, but that didn't stop them from being persistent. Sherlock is not far behind, his long legs eating up the distance easier than John. When the walls of the alleyway close around them they don't stop their pace till they reach the metal fencing.

"Give me-"

Sherlock is already ahead of him, kneeling briefly, scooping one of John's feet into his clasped hands and hoisting him to the plastic garbage can sitting next to the wall. John wants to gripe at him, saying take it easy or some other deterrent, but he gets the job done so smooth and effortlessly he just accepts the minor manhandling. He makes it over and just as his feet hit the ground Sherlock is landing beside him, graceful as a cat.

"You're an impatient one aren't you."

"Talking about what we both already know wastes time."

John doesn't argue, just rolls his eyes and leads the way again. They've been walking for hours, creeping in alleyways, hiding behind cars before reaching a park. The grass is doing well for itself, sprouting up thick and green, its over the top of their shoes as they walk along and John stops in his tracks as they're cutting through some bushes. There's a pit in his stomach, but he doesn't want to panic, because Sherlock seems cool as a cucumber. Just ahead of them, in a pool of blood is a zombie crawling about, its legs are gone but it's spine trails behind.

"John," the man whispers, "would you like to see how I mark the zombies for my research?"

Anxiety shoots through the doctor, "Wh-what, no, no I don't."

That doesn't deter his traveling partner though, he's shuffling around in his side bag and produces a shiny paint can. The man is already moving forward and out of the bushes before John can get a hold on his long jacket.

"Sherlock stop, Sherlock," John hisses, anger and confusion lacing through his voice without hindrance.

"Hush."

The finality in the man's voice is enough to warrant John's silence, but not enough to stop him from placing a hand on his gun. He crouches and watches, notices how impossibly tall Sherlock looks from his angle and wonders how he's able to move so quickly and quietly. Sherlock strides forward, the crawling zombie barely makes note of him until Sherlock's faint shadow looms over it.

It gargles and claws at the grass, its whole body swollen with the virus, decay wafting in the breeze and washing over Sherlock, but he pays no mind to it. He'd been standing directly in front of it and John is somewhat baffled as his traveling partner merely side steps around it. The creature furtively tries to catch up, it senses something moving around it, smells the faint wisps of fresh blood and flesh. Sherlock is swift in his purpose, his tall stature gives him the advantage of taking a wider berth to the zombie, uncapping the can he merely leans over and easily spray paint the thing's back. A muddy blue splotch appears on it and continues, not a trace of fear in his face.

John is quick to scrabble out of the bushes and catch up, "Won't it be able to smell us though still?"

"Not likely, I've mixed the paint with infected blood, the aerosol produces the smell of the infected and masks ours. The virus can _only_ be transferred through bite, the saliva in the zombie's mouth, so the paint is harmless."

"Oh... jeez you've thought of everything haven't you...but don't you feel vulnerable without a weapon? I mean, when you walk up to them and stuff."

"Not in the least, John," the doctor scowls a little, the tone is condescending, as if he should've known that and was stupid for even asking.

The day continues on with little conversation, they stop to eat lunch on a fire escape and as they're going deeper into the city they notice special graffiti on the walls. There are arrows with writing saying 'safety, food,water'. Neither comment on it, only ignore them because John is on a mission and Sherlock offered to accompany him.

"Guess we should start looking for some where to sleep," John speaks up.

Most of the day its been dark clouds rolling over the city, sunlight here and there, but they can see in the distance a fat, dark grey cloud ready to drop rain on them at any time.

They agree that this time, Sherlock will be the one to choose the house and pick the lock. The building they pick looks to be like flats stacked on top of each other and there are stairs that, Sherlock informs John, zombies have a hard time of getting up because of their bloated joints and bodies. Sherlock is crouched next to the door, his long, dexterous fingers working at the main door to the building, John is keeping watch next to him. When the door finally swings open John is first to go in, he's fairly sure that because the door was locked no zombies had gotten in, but there were always other ways of getting into a building. This time Sherlock waited by the main door before he heard John call for him.

As an extra precaution Sherlock sprayed around the door's entrance, highlighting it with the infected blue paint before closing and locking the door. John is standing next the stairs that lead up, the elevator across the room no longer working. Staying just behind the man Sherlock watches how easy and fluid he is on the way up, checking the landings before motioning him to follow, he could only congratulate himself for spotting this excellent specimen of a man when he did.

The second floor from the top was their destination and when John had swept through, made sure the coast was clear they ventured in. One of the flats had its door wide open, they could see the mess of hasty escape, but the second door was locked. Sherlock watched, bemused as John knocked on the door and tried the handle before let him have go at it. Most everyone had already fled the city, or run in terror for the countryside, anyone who had stayed behind either wished death upon themselves, or were truly confident they could survive through this.

When they finally entered the flat, calling inside quietly to make doubly sure no one was there they found that apartment was immaculate. Clean crisp furnishings, everything had a place and cheesy paintings on the walls.

"A model of the other flats, for when they show potential buyers" Sherlock informed looking around.

"Well, isn't this a sight," John said wandering around, throwing his arms out and laughing a little. Some of his worries had been put to rest, they wouldn't have to think about someone coming back for anything.

Sherlock sprayed the door and locked it, coming back to see that John had disappeared into the house. He found him standing in the doorway to bedroom, one bedroom to be precise and he peered at Sherlock.

"I'll take one of the chairs out there," he offered, the small sitting room didn't have a couch, just two dark maroon chairs with a small table between them.

"Nonsense, we'll share it."

"What?"

"Come now John, you must know the benefits of a decent night's sleep. You are a doctor, and no doubt your shoulder won't be any good if you sleep in chairs all the time."

He wanted to argue but shut his mouth and stared at the bedroom, again, he was right. The cold weather and the couch at Sherlock's flat had wedged into his shoulder making it ache most of the day.

"Think I'm going to have a go at a shower," John said before making hasty retreat.

Thankful there were towels under the sink he tried not to think about the fact that with no electricity, the shower was going to be freezing, but he needed to get the dirty and sweat off of himself, it had been too long.

"John, use this."

Sherlock appeared in the door way to the dim bathroom holding a bar of soap, he offered it up and disappeared when John took it. Waiting a minute, the sound of the shower head filling up the silence John finally stripped, quickly, and let out a very unmanly yelp when he stepped in. He'd have to make this quick and efficient. His whole body shivered as he scrubbed the soap over himself, his teeth chattered when he finally ducked his head under to wash it all away and nearly slipped as he tried to exit the shower. Leaving the soap on the counter he wrapped the towel around himself and stood there for a moment trying to will the cold away. The next thing he knew Sherlock had popped his head in and was speaking.

"I'll shower and after that we'll wash our clothes. If we let them hang they should be dry by tomorrow."

John just stared at him, the man had no idea about privacy it seemed. Give a curt nod he dried himself the rest of the way. It didn't take Sherlock very long to shower and washing their clothes went by without any substantial conversation. They eat dinner wrapped in blankets while their clothes hang in the bathroom to dry and by the time it's dark outside to see anything in the sitting room John his hesitating next to the bed.

Sherlock has already slipped under the covers and turned over, his mop of curly hair spread out on the pillow and John makes the arduous journey to getting in on the other side. In the back of his mind he tells himself that it's like being at summer camp and having to sleep in a tent with two other boys...but this time they're in the same bed. Swallowing thickly he turns over and stares at the wall.

"Sorry if I hit you, I thrash around a bit, 'specially if I'm having a nightmare," he informs quietly.

"No worries John, I'm a light sleeper, I'll wake you if it becomes too much."

Neither of them speak after that and John listens to the quiet breaths of his traveling companion. Inside he is more than the calm exterior he exudes, he's at his wits end, hoping Harry will be alright and if she isn't that she holds on a little bit longer for him. Closing his eyes he sinks lower under the covers, moving to get comfortable before freezing up when he bumps into Sherlock's bareback, the man is doesn't move at all, maybe waiting for John to hurry up and stop. John forces himself to relax and ignore the fact that they're pressing back against each other, it's inevitable, and he ignores it in favor of falling asleep.


	3. The House

Au. Zombie Apocalypse

(A/N) I haven't written this much in a long time.

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><p>Sherlock is awake the moment John starts to twist in the sheets. The blankets shift around and he turns over to face the man, the light of morning is already washing through the bedroom. He watches quietly, intent on the man's expression, eyebrows knit together and small noise coming from his mouth, as if talking to someone. There's no telling when he should try to wake the man, just that if it gets too bad he'll have to jump in, but for now he observes.<p>

John is an interesting man, ash blonde hair and inquisitive green eyes. Sherlock had noted that without all his gear he was definitely built up, the last vestiges of his military training still lingering on his body. He likes John Watson the army doctor, he'd decided this the moment he saw the man barging into the house down the street, fearless and strong. The man had good tastes if he had to put it simply. Pulled from his reverie Sherlock reaches out as the man starts getting too close to the edge.

The second he pulls at John's shoulders to bring him back, strong, deadly hands latch onto his biceps and squeeze. Not just any kind of squeeze, the kind that turns knuckles white and could only be attributed to someone holding on for dear life. He looks confused, his talking has stopped and Sherlock gives him a firm shake.

"John," his voice sounds so loud in the room, he tries again, "John."

Green eyes are instantly piercing into his and Sherlock doesn't say anything as John takes a deep, life giving breath. Watching the man come to his senses and actually focus on the world around him his eyes widen in horror at what he's doing.

"Bloody hell," he croaks and unlatches himself.

John catches a glimpse of Sherlock wincing when the pressure disappears and feels his heart sink at the sight of the imprints he's left, light bruising would happen within the next hour or so. Catching his breath John speaks quickly.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock."

"You're not at fault John."

"But I-" he stops when Sherlock gives him a look and moves away. Scrubbing his hands through his short hair John watches as Sherlock slips from the bed, walking away in the nude and he flushes. There was just something about this man and his confident, almost cocky behavior that made light of John's own feelings. He lay in the sheets quietly, his heart returning to its normal rhythm finally. He, in his opinion, had the decency to drape a blanket about himself when he finally got up.

The wooden floor was is to the touch and the air crisp without any heating during the night. Looking into the bathroom he spots Sherlock buttoning his pants and the man tosses him his clothes without even looking up. John grimaces at how stiff they've become over the night, but he's thankful they're dry. Pulling them on he comes out to a breakfast set for two, dried foods and some water.

"We're gonna have to hit a store today, gather supplies," he sighs, flopping down into the chair adjacent to Sherlock's.

They finish quickly, pack and John nabs one of the blankets from the bed, stuffing it into his backpack before they leave. There's no sign of forced entry when they get to the bottom floor and they leave quickly. The streets are wet and the dark cloud is still looming over the city, it had rained during the night, giving everything a muddier look. John knew it was going to be a long day when even in his vest and jacket, the wind kicked up and his shoulder protested when he stiffened up against it. It's mid afternoon before they reach a grocery store, the car blockade they'd run into had detoured them around a few streets.

The doors to the grocery store are wide open and they both know canned foods are the priority, with safety coming in to a close second. John reminds Sherlock that vegetables are what they want most and nuts if he can manage that, high in protein since he's pretty sure any meat in the store has probably spoiled or been stolen. Together they venture in, John using the torch he'd stolen to light their way through the aisles. The store was a mess, shelves practically dumped onto the floor and crushed boxes scattered about. Its slim pickings but John is thankful Sherlock is so tall; the man could easily look at the top shelves where items had been pushed back in a rush.

He hands the light over and tries not to fidget as he stands there in relative darkness. Sherlock is whispering what he sees, passing down a few things that John obliges to put into the messenger bag at his side then the man freezes, a moment later John hears it too. Something dragging across the linoleum and then that telltale moan that couldn't be mistaken for anything else. John's free hand immediately reaches up to latch onto Sherlock's coat sleeve and they're looking at either ends of the aisle.

"We have to run," John whispers and his heart almost stops when at least five other moans rise up around them.

Sherlock grimaces, there hadn't been any zombies in the vicinity, where had these ones come from? Lurking in the corners of the store, waiting for prey? He swivels the light back and forth between the exits of the aisle and he jerks back at the first sign of movement near them. John is already backing up, a can of food in one hand and the other tugging at Sherlock's sleeve to hurry up. They break for the other end of the aisle, their feet sounding loudly within the silent store. The escape is short lived as up ahead there's another zombie, scuffling on a broken leg, reaching out to them as if for help. This time its Sherlock who pulls John after him into another aisle and the blood is roaring in his ears when he sees that way is blocked too.

John knows their options, and he doesn't much like the thought of having to shoot the zombies and attract the attention of more. No, he has to think quickly and he snatches Sherlock's hand, turning and running deeper into the store, there has to be a back door, or a loading dock they can exit through. It's even darker in the back, the torchlight flashes brightly of the white "Employees only" signs around the area. The second he sees a sliver of light across the room he's pointing and directing Sherlock after him, except he nearly yells when the light flashes over two zombies standing just near the door. To his dismay Sherlock doesn't stop running and now he's following the man, heat pounding he wants nothing to do with the creatures, except put as much space between them and himself as possible.

The zombies groan at the sound and smell of their prey and begin their macabre dance to intervene them. The exit sign over the door had long since gone dark but John is pushing harder, the pain in his leg gone and he slams his good shoulder into it and it bursts open. Sherlock is fast behind him and he winces at how bright it is outside, but he just about runs into John, for the man had stopped. He wants to know the meaning of it and stops himself the second he looks over John's ash blonde hair. There was no doubt in his mind that the mob of undead before them had heard their rather loud escape. In grotesque slow motion he watches their heads and bodies begin to come to life, they can smell their fear, their sweat and Sherlock is the first to regain his bearings.

"John!" He barks and clutches the man's elbow, almost having to drag him away from the spot. It isn't long till his partner finds his feet and their booking it to get around the building and away from the mass of moaning infected. Sherlock shoves the flashlight into his bag and they don't look back. They keep running, even if the undead are slow on their feet, doesn't mean their cries won't attract all the others in the vicinity.

When they stop they're out of breath and John is lagging behind considerably, his knee aching and both his shoulders were nagging at him. Breathing harshly through his nose Sherlock attempted to stave off a stitch in his side and kept looking around them, as if expecting there to be an ambush. They'd stop in the middle of street, not many cars to speak of, but no zombies either.

"Are you alright?"

John nods quickly, ignoring the pain in his leg and the loud pounding of his heart. What he wasn't alright with was that he'd frozen. There had been so many of them, up close and personal, he'd never had to deal with them like that before. He looks around them and nods again.

"We're getting pretty close to where Harry lives…pretty damn close," he murmurs and avoids Sherlock's eyes.

"We should find somewhere to stay soon. Getting caught in the rain won't do us any good."

Looking up John sees that they've run in the direction of the cloud, it's much darker above them and much more menacing. Consenting they go about the long task of finding both a suitable house, easy to defend and easy to escape. They're thankful that the house they'd picked has a can opener and Sherlock tucks it into his bag. The taste of vegetables is wonderful and by the time its dark John is still wired. He tries to sleep but it eludes him and John is startled when Sherlock speaks.

"Tell me about your sister John."

The words are so quiet, so sincere that John isn't even sure where to start. Swallowing thickly he replies in a soft tone.

"We grew up together, went to school together," he trails off, the silence deafening and he finally says it, "but, then she started drinking. Mum didn't like it very much, neither did I. We tried to help her, but that didn't stop her. She's a kind person, just a little lost I suppose."

John pauses when he hears Sherlock move behind him and there's just the wisp of breath across the back of his head and he continues.

"She married this lovely woman named Clara. We all thought it would be good for her, but they split a few months before the outbreak. There wasn't much communication in our family except the occasional holiday get together. Now I don't even know if she's okay... I have to help her if I can."

Saying it out loud feels good, makes the idea all the more tangible that he's actually able to do something. It didn't matter if they were at odds; they were family and family stuck together. He dared to roll over, it was strange sharing a bed with someone he barely knew, but the man was extraordinary and maybe that made up for it a little bit. Lying on his back John whispered again.

"What about you Sherlock, family?"

"I refused his offer to go with him. I'd rather run into a group of infected."

He chuckled quietly at Sherlock's very serious statement and didn't push further. So he wasn't the only family that had its problems.

"I remember this one time, Harry and I were at school," John didn't ask if Sherlock wanted to hear stories, but he felt as though the silence needed to be filled with something. Sherlock didn't abject though, just closed his eyes and listened to the soft voice of his traveling companion.

/

The morning goes quietly, John doesn't wake in a fit and they leave the house after a rather cold breakfast. John is eager today, Sherlock can see the pep in his step, the faster than normal pace he's going. The day is heavy withe smell of rain, so much so that Sherlock keeps an eye to the sky, he'd like to avoid getting his coat drenched, it would take forever to dry completely.

It occurs to him, that, if and when they do arrive at Harry's, and if the woman is still alive...that he'd be heading home alone. Twos company and threes a crowd, he wouldn't think about intruding on the two to tag along. No, he wouldn't impose himself on the, John was an exceptional man and maybe, just maybe if he invited Sherlock, he'd entertain the idea of going with them.

He's so lost in thought that by lunchtime he can barely remember the route they've taken. John leads them to a small cafe that's had its main window smashed in. They sit at one of the tables and dine on a meager portion jerky and crackers with water to wash it down.

Barely an hour after they've eaten John announces they're in the right neighborhood, Sherlock doesn't speak. He lets John have the quiet of anticipation build up inside of him and when they come to a row of small houses, he watches him jog ahead and then stop. No, he doesn't just stop, he is deathly still and then he's sprinting past the fence and up the walkway.

"Harry!"

Sherlock doesn't waste a second sprinting for the house, John was making a ruckus and he could hear outside. John is calling and shouting, hoping for some kind of reply. Walking in Sherlock sees the blood smeared along the entrance, the living room is a mess, thrown books and toppled furniture and more blood leading away to the kitchen. His steps falter a moment, he can't see John, but he hears the soft wail of a man who's lost everything and it strikes into his chest.

He can hear John muttering, crying softly and Sherlock is torn between letting the man alone and going to his aid. Compassion wins out and he takes slow, deliberate steps across the ruined living room. The linoleum of the kitchen is awash in blood, smeared hand prints and the obvious chaos of someone desperately trying to crawl away. John is crouched low, his whole body shaking and Sherlock focuses on the man's back, the remains that were no doubt once a human being in his peripherals.

"No, no, no," John is chanting softly, "I'm so sorry Harry. I didn't get here in time."

This is what he's always tried to avoid, personal connections to people. Sherlock turns from John, he won't leave his side but he won't intrude on the initial grief that's wrecking through him. Family would always be a weakness and friends more trouble then they're worth. John was the exception.

Sherlock decides for both of them that dwelling on the past will not protect them. He turns and in one swoop, slings an arm around John's chest and heaves him up. His reaction is immediate and the shouting begins, the profanities strung together hold no sway over Sherlock's determination. He has to save him again, save him from this crushing wave of debilitating sadness and move on.

"John, we have to go, there's nothing left for you here."

He wishes John would understand, but he doesn't expect much from the man at the moment and so he continues, fending off elbows and all around man-handling John out of the house over his shoulder. It takes what little strength he has left from the days of running and small meals. To his annoyance John only gets louder and Sherlock knows for a fact that they need to escape, maybe find somewhere to hide; at least until the coast is clear and he's made sure that John's fit hasn't brought unwanted attention.

Sherlock has seen men break before, he's seen them plead and try to bargain, and it's nothing new to him. His job before all of this had been singular to him, the worlds only consulting detective and when Lestrade's men were too slow he had to make things happen to move the case along. But he's never seen a man shatter before.

He almost doesn't believe how much energy John has, it's a struggle just going across the street and it isn't too long before he's finally fed up with it. Swinging the man back to the ground he punches him hard enough to knock the doctor out. Blessed silence...and now dead weight. It's almost impossible to heft the man back onto his shoulder so he scoops him up into his arms and carries him as far as he can manage.

The next time John wakes its storming outside and he's in a bed he doesn't recognize. Reality crashes back in and he can the mangled body of his sister, a broken sob wrecks through his frame and he squeezes his eyes shut. Not that it helps, just makes the images all the more vivid and he dares to use his voice.

"Sherlock?"

John tries not to panic, he made quiet the scene, he wouldn't blame the man for splitting after that. Sitting up John shivers, he's without shirt and the blankets are calling him back. He doesn't want to move and he falls back into the sheets and ignores the fact his eyes sting. The window on the far side of the room is blurred by the pounding of rain and his mind won't stop drifting back to Harry. Exhaustion over takes him and he's pulled back under to sleep.

Low murmuring fills the room and John wakes to a darkened room, the sound of the storm is a dull roar in the background. The moment he moves to sit up the talking stops and he can see the murky outline of someone sitting beside the bed.

"Sher-"

"Shh," the voices commands quietly before continuing, "we have to wait here for a few days. There's an audience outside."

Guilt bubbles in the pit of his stomach and he lies back down, usually he's so composed but... Harry. Taking a shaky breath he fights back the tears and regains what little composure he has left.

"I'm sorr-"

"Shut up John."

An unexpected laugh tumbles from his lips, so much unsaid and Sherlock won't let him say it. The man is a mystery, never taking anything but giving back in his own way.

"How long have I been asleep?"

"Since yesterday afternoon, it'll be morning in a few hours."

"Have you slept at all?"

"No, I've slept enough in the past few days."

"What were you whispering about before?"

John turns on his side to face the man, he needs a distraction, he needs to keep the morbid images of his sister from creeping back into his mind.

"Skull and I were chatting."

That caught his attention. Squinting, he could just barely make out that Sherlock was holding something.

"I see...do you talk to Skull often?"

"Enough that we have a close rapport with each other."

Silence stretches out for minutes, but it feels so much longer to John, his vision is clearing and he can see more details of Sherlock. There's an overwhelming need to thank the man for dealing with him and yet he's pretty sure Sherlock will tell him to be quiet again.

"Go to sleep John, I will be here in the morning."

It doesn't take long for the doctor to fall asleep, his mind and body agreeing that now, with someone to watch over them, is as good a time as any to relax.

/

There's the sickening smell of rust, like liquid in the air it soaks into anything it touches. Dashes of red smear across his world like streamers in a parade and he feels neither joy nor happiness as he stumbles in the dark. He's calling out because he _knows_ she's there, just beyond his reach and John is tearing at the seams. It's like drowning, and he's gasping for breath but salvation won't come and he feel so estranged from his body. John can see himself kneeling by her body, crying and apologizing but he's alone. Sherlock isn't there, it's nothing but a room, filling with blood and there's nothing he can do to stop it. His dreams are filled with the terrors of his past and his present; they're blending together into one long nightmare of blood and lost friends.

It feels like he's lived a thousand years, watching his life go by like a movie and it just keeps repeating, showing his failures and his faults. There's no end in sight until he's see that glimmer, just a spark and it's turning into a fire. Hungry and unyielding it consumes his life, purifies even the deepest of his scars and it's no longer a spark, it's a voice, drawing him out of his lonely corner in hell.

John tries not to think about the fact he's breathing so hard he's making himself dizzy, Sherlock is leaning over him. The room is so much lighter this time, he can actually see the planes of Sherlock's face, see his messy black hair and the whites of his eyes.

"I'm okay," he confirms out loud and takes a few calming breaths.

Sherlock doesn't leave his side though, and John has to break silence, "God I'm hungry."

The smallest of smirks quirk the man's lips, "Get up then, we'll have lunch."

Walking through the house he sees that Sherlock has been busy, covering the windows and blocking the doors. All their supplies have been emptied onto the kitchen table and he's pretty sure the man has some kind of order to this chaos. The man corrals him to a seat at the breakfast bar and he's actually served a plate of food and he resists laughing at the absurdity of how normal a plate looks. He eats alone, watching Sherlock wander in and out of the kitchen and carrying that absurd skull with him.

"How many are out there?"

"More then a dozen. The rain masked our scent, so we should be safe. We should leave tonight though."

"Tonight? In the dark and rain, with walkers out there," John gives him a skeptical look.

"Yes, it'll be to our advantage if its raining as well."

"You've got to be kidding me."

"John," Sherlock back tracks into the kitchen from the living room and stands on the other side of the counter," we won't last here, the longer we stay the more danger we're in."

Sherlock can see the defiance in the man's eyes, the dim room does nothing to hide the way his face finally falls in resignation.

"Right, tonight then."

"Glad you agree. Finish lunch and go get some rest-"

"No," John's voice is tight and he glares at Sherlock.

"Yes, you need your strength-"

"And what about you? It's not healthy to go days without sleep!"

"Now is not the time to be playing doctor. We have to leave here and I _will_ drag you back to that bed."

"You're being unreasonable."

John can hear the soft exhale of a laugh and he doesn't find the situation funny in the least. He's finished his food and now it's a matter of who's going to do what. They agree to both stay awake and go through their packs and scour the house for anything useful. It's storming nonstop the rest of the day without letting up. Sherlock has stopped talking to Skull, to John's relief and has started drilling him for information. Mostly he avoids the subject of family and war, so John ends up focusing on himself and his medical knowledge.

It's strange having someone so tall trailing after him, intent on everything he's saying. When he turns the conversation toward Sherlock, it's less enlightening, his brother Mycroft is the bulk of his ramblings. They're not too nice either, but he accepts them none the less, sitting at the table with him as they arrange their packs more evenly. The house grows quiet though, as night starts to set in around the house and John is adamant they use flashlights they'd found, forget the zombies seeing them, what about their safety? John takes a deep breath, his hands twisting nervously along the handle of the shovel he'd claimed as his weapon. What irks him is that Sherlock hasn't even raised the bat he'd given him, was he asking to be over taken by a zombie?

Just opening the backdoor sets John's nerves on end, the wind breezes in around them and the scent of rain and mud is heavy in the air. Sherlock turns the flashlight on and they're exiting the house. The grass is soggy, the wind bites through their jackets and John knows they'll be soaked by the time they stop. There's nothing quite like the feeling adrenaline pumping through your veins, it's so familiar and John welcomes it like the sun on his face. The moment their feet hit cement John almost falters when he sees Sherlock's light swipe over two zombies and he pushes himself harder to keep pace.

They run, like there's no tomorrow, leaving behind what little connection John had to his past. Survival is all that matters now, getting to the next day and taking that next breath is what drives them back into the city. Lungs burning, joints aching John knows he can't last much longer and when he almost trips over his own feet he stops and his legs give out. Gravel bits into the palms of his hands and the torch is off to the side with his shovel. Everything is dark, everything is drowning in freezing water and he's thankful to see Sherlock coming back because he doesn't think his vocal cords will work. Grabbing the fallen items he feels Sherlock stagger a little at his weight, no doubt feel just as much pain and exhaustion as him.

Time doesn't seem to move, it's all just one long moment of darkness and rain. He's slumped against the door that Sherlock is currently trying to unlock, slender fingers taking much longer to maneuver than normal. The second the door gives way John yelps and stumbles back, his companion is quick to follow and latch the deadbolt with a a satisfying _thunk._

It's a full five minutes before either of them move, catching their breaths before Sherlock is the first to walk away shivering. They've created a puddle in the entryway and John finally gets up. He finds Sherlock in the living room, emptying out the contents of his bag and John joins him. The house is a blessing, but what he'd really to have had was some heat and he knows if they stay in their soaked clothing much longer it won't bode well for tomorrow.

Throwing his empty pack down John is starts to strip, feeling the soaked clothing stick to his skin in the most uncomfortable ways. Torch in hand he searches for the bathroom and by the time he's finished hanging his clothes up, Sherlock is there too doing the same. They're both shivering and John knows there's only one thing they can do.

"Sh-Sherlock, we have to-"

"I know John, h-hypothermia will set in soon."

He's glad he doesn't have to explain it. They find the bed in disarray, sheets askew as if someone had woken up and left in a hurry. There's no discussion and John accepts the fact that Sherlock is so tall and when he's pulled up against the man's bare chest he also accepts the fact that he's entirely okay with it. With a layer of blanket between their bodies for privacy's sake, they pulled the sheets close and eventually their shivering subsided and sleep was easier to catch.


	4. The Arrows

Au. Zombie Apocalypse

(A/N) fuck college, it's distracting me from writing about zombies (pardon any mistakes, posting before I rush off to work, I'll correct things later)

* * *

><p>Pale, grey light filters in through a skylight above, its grim beauty is only marred by the sheets of water that are cascading across it the glass pane. Sherlock is awake first, but not because John is moving, quite the opposite, he usually wakes up early. Blinking the sleep from his eyes Sherlock stares ahead, ruffled blonde hair tickles under his chin and he nuzzles closer. He's contentedly warm, the large comforter trapping their heat in and he examines the fine hair along the back of John's neck.<p>

The man had not thrashed or moved much during the night, in fact they had stayed in the same positions they fell asleep in, spooned together sharing body warmth. Breathing quietly he lays there for a long time till John stirs, murmuring in his sleep and shifting around. Sherlock is completely still as John finds another comfortable position. He feels the man's forehead press against his sternum, ashy hair tickling again and he can see the scar on John's shoulder. It's exceptionally pale compared to the rest of John's skin, and he reaches up to run his fingertips over it. Smooth and warm and he resists stroking it longer in favor of drifting back to sleep again, he's relatively sure their clothes could use a few more hours.

The next time he wakes it isn't so peaceful and he almost has the wind knocked out of him when John's hands thrust against his chest. It's like before, where his face is a display of emotions and he's making little whimpering noises. Sherlock doesn't take it personally and doesn't waste time in trying to wake the man. He finds the process to go much easier this time and he only has to say John's name once and he's staring into weary green eyes.

"I dreamt of her again-," he gasps, almost disbelieving that now Harry was going to be a regular in his nightmare lineup.

John doesn't get farther than that and he scrubs his hands over his face, willing away the horror of his dreams. Sherlock doesn't move, only lays there quietly observing, John is trying to be strong in front of him and he knows it and a part of him wonders why. A part of him hopes that maybe John will give in and cry and then he'll wrap his arms around this beautifully broken man and promise everything will be alright. But he doesn't, at least, John doesn't give him the chance.

"Something on my face?"

The words are muffled slightly as John stops wiping invisible tears away and halfway buries his head into the pillow.

"Not at all."

One eye peeks up at him, "Oh….reason for staring then?"

He isn't quite sure what kind of look Sherlock is giving him, but his eyes are a misty blue and he can see how they flick around his face. If he had to describe the feelings it was bring to the surface, he'd have to say 'self-conscious' was the one that stood out the most. Curiosity would be a close second and something like defiance chasing the others, he could stare too, if he wanted! So maybe he should, but the second his eyes went past Sherlock's collar bone they were immediately looking elsewhere. Being a doctor it wasn't like he hadn't seen all that stuff before, just that all the ones before couldn't really compare to the man in front of him. He had an air of refinement, even in such bleak times it kept up and even now on the bed they currently cohabited. Was Sherlock looking down on him? No, no couldn't be...could he? John's eyes met Sherlock's and he opened his mouth to ask again, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"Do you want to talk about your dreams?"

That wasn't what he expected, "You sound like my therapist and no," he replied bluntly.

He saw the man's lips form a slim smile. They fall into silence, the steady patter of rain filling the air with a quiet hum. John is halfway asleep when he feels the bed dip and then an arm sling over his chest.

"Our clothes could use another hour or so. Sleep."

It was obviously an order, but John was too tired to argue about it, he'd ignore his other demands later. Sherlock didn't fall asleep though, he lay in thrumming silence of his rushing thoughts. He relished the light; it gave his eyes the chance to regard everything in front of him, truthfully he needed time to think. Think about the ramifications of how his feelings would affect this this mutual companionship they had unwittingly agreed to.

The facts, yes, start with the facts and lists. John was an asset, a doctor, a solider, rational to a degree and quick to adapt, not to mention he liked the man's defiance and determination. John was a liability, he would be a weakness, he was...he was.

Sherlock grimaced, it had already happened, he was emotionally invested in this man. The way he held himself, the way he spoke, his facial expressions and his easy personality. Had it been so long since he'd had human contact that any man off the street would do? And that, right there, Sherlock knew was a lie. He'd met plenty of handsome men, but none as appealing as the doctor asleep next to him. Exhaling through his nose Sherlock pressed his face into the John's messy hair and decided it would be mutually beneficial for them to continue like this, no matter where it lead.

John woke up later, the covers pulled all the way over his head and empty bed. It didn't surprise him too much and he took the moment to slide a little bit over to Sherlock's side, it was relatively warm still. He knew it couldn't last, pretending this was some Sunday morning where he'd just lay in bed until noon. No, his old life was dead and gone and now it was the bleak world around him, filled with corpses imitating the living. Rising from the bed meant welcoming the cold air of the house; it settled on his skin and chilled him to the bone.

John retrieved his clothes and dressed, his jeans damp in a couple spot but not enough to bother. He found Sherlock in the living room perusing through a book as he paced back and forth while holding Skull and muttering to it. The man was certainly something. Standing there for a moment he watched him, amused at how invested he was in whatever the book and Skull had to offer, positively endearing. Clearing his throat he greeted the man and they sat down for brunch.

"Well, John, I feel that we are at a precipice, a decision must be made," John watched Sherlock in the chair across from him, the man leant forward, elbows on his knees and hands pressed together as if in prayer, "whether you and I part ways."

Mid bite John stopped and stared, sharp grey eyes were trained solely on him and looked as though expecting an answer right then and there.

"Uhm, well…"

"I'd prefer we decided soon," his tone was so nonchalant.

"Well, I mean, I wouldn't mind if we kept up for a while. We don't have to if-"

"It's settled then."

John could've sworn he saw a sly smile cross the man's lips, but he was sweeping out of the chair and disappearing down the hallway no sooner had he stopped speaking. Finishing his bite John was glad the man seemed pleased by his answer; he just wondered what they would be doing now. Winter was coming-

"Now then, the matter with your sister was sorted out; onto something that has intrigued me."

He wanted to turn and shout at him for his insensitive comment.

"Oh, forgive me. Grief counseling isn't a strong point of mine."

Sherlock ignored the way John's expression turned sour, and continued, "Now, throughout our trek across the city we saw graffiti, pointing to shelter, food and water."

"Yeah?"

"I propose we find this place and observe it. Living in a colony has its advantages, steady source of food and protection no doubt."

"Alright then, sounds fair by me."

"Good, come now John, we've wasted enough daylight as it is."

The rain had tapered off since yesterday, now a dreary drizzle that blanketed everything. They stuck close to the building fronts, passing under an awning just for the sake of a few moments without rain on their heads. Sherlock is the first to spot the graffiti they had been searching for, farther down the street then John had been able to see, but he trusted his tall companion when he jogged ahead to examine it.

John arrived just in time to see Sherlock running his hands over the white paint, eyes squinting as he observed the writing. He didn't expect Sherlock to speak up, but the moment he was beside the man he started speaking.

"The arrow is in a relatively straight fashion, someone wasn't in a hurry to paint it. More than likely they had others with them, safety in numbers. The writing is precise too, someone tall enough to form the letters in all the same fashion."

He watches as Sherlock continues to trace his hands over the letter as if imagining how the person wrote each o them, how they stood and the flow of their movements. It's something else to witness how he pulls back the layers of scene as makes connections so obvious John wonders if he himself would ever have been able to see them without Sherlock. Probably not he figured.

"Promising... there may be more people there then I thought, enough they can safely send out parties to make signs and do it with confidence that of they are attacked it would be no problem."

John gives a lopsided smile as he sees Sherlock's fingers dance along the wall before he tears himself away to give him a pointed look.

"I'd like to see the facility before we reveal ourselves to them, knowing your ally is just as important as knowing your enemy."

With those final words he turned and continued on in the direction the arrow pointed. They find the arrows are space relatively far apart, assuming the people following them will continue walking with the faith they'll find the next one. Except by the third arrow they spotted the street they turned onto could only be likened to a minefield. John's hand reflexively tightened on the shovel in his hand. More than a dozen of them wandering around, there was no avoiding it, and of John had to admit it, he might have been a little eager to exact some revenge on the creatures.

"If we're going through and not around, we need to handle them carefully," he whispered as if reading John's thoughts.

"How do you propose-"

"Separately, divide their numbers instead of drawing them together. If it gets to be too much, call for me."

He tries to ignore the fact they Sherlock thinks he's the one going to call for help, brushing it off he takes a steadying breath. Glancing over to Sherlock he sees the man hike the scarf around his neck up above his mouth and nose. It makes him wish he has the like to do with. Settling for zipping and popping the collar of his jacket, John heads for the opposite sidewalk. The shovel in his hands feels unnaturally heavy, but he swings it to get a feel for the metal end.

There's a walker heading straight for him, the others down the street have already caught on and started to convene. Lifting the shovel up John made sure to keep it flat, his eyes zeroed in on the thing's neck, if anything he'd get a good chunk of its neck and then incapacitate it completely. John lines up the hit and swings as hard as he can. There's the sickening crunch of bones being shattered and the squelch of flesh and blood giving way to metal. John makes sure to duck his head down at the initial splatter before peeking up to see the degree of the damage. Kicking the zombie squarely in the stomach it rips away from the shovel and crumples to the ground, one more blow outta do it. He barely has to align himself, taking an easy swing and severing the head.

The stench of infected blood is thick around him and John skirts around the corpse, continuing onto the next one that's shuffling around a car. The kills get easier, his reflexes quicker as the rust sloughs off and it's just like riding a bike. In between moments he gets to peek over at Sherlock, who is further along than him, his movements are precise, coat swirling around his knees, like a dance as he methodically immobilizes them for easier dispatching. By the 5th zombie John is breathing heavy, muscles aching from having to take down full grown men and women. There's two left and he pressed against the side front of a building to catch a breather.

In the back of his mind he thinks this a young man's game, someone without injuries and nightmares to weigh them down. He doesn't have to wait long to debate whether or not to forfeit this round because he sees Sherlock heading for the farthest creature, bashing its head in. Tearing himself away from the wall John musters the energy to take one last zombie down. The first swing goes halfway and sticks in its throat. Growling he has to tug harder to break it free, he gets ready for the next blow and is startled when its knees go out and he sees Sherlock standing behind it, tall and ominous, a beautiful executioner. Its skull caves in like an eggshell and it falls to the ground with shards in its brain. John is breathing harshly through his nose, his arms fall the shovel scrapes wetly along the ground.

Stepping around the body John follows after Sherlock, their weapons bloody and their bodies wired with adrenaline. The walk down the road is tense; neither of them speaks till they see the next arrow.

"I'm knackered," John sighs, shoulders slumping.

Sherlock gives a low chuckle, "You handled yourself as expected."

John laughs and shakes his head grimaces at the cold slide of rain down his neck, he'd forgotten it had been raining; street seemed nothing but a blur now. Their weapons wash off for the most part, but the more stubborn pieces of flesh cling to it as a grotesque reminder.

"Do you think they'll all just eventually die out," John asks, he silence is killing him.

"Their bodies are no long living, the tissue is dead, and decay will be their ultimate killers, so it will be months before we see any kind of determinate end to all of this."

John wants to say more, he wants to delve into the world of everything after all of this is done, he wants to speculate, but he doesn't, he doesn't know if he'll live that long. They decide to eat lunch on the go. Sherlock is determined to find the end of the arrows. If anything, John is grateful for all of this, for having a travelling partner, who is above all things smart and he didn't think if it had been some village idiot, he'd have been able to control his temper.

Lost in thought John barely notices how Sherlock stops on a dime, or the hand that comes up to block his way till he runs into it chest first.

"What are-"

"Look."

He follows the man's line of site, down the road to an intersection where there's a large group of people. Except there's something different about this group, they're in formation and moving at a steady pace.

"Should we hide?"

"No, they've already seen us, we'll meet them halfway, but be ready to run if I say so."

This is the last thing he wanted to see, a large group of people, menacing in their own right, they're only two men and John doesn't think he'll have the skills or time to shot every one of them if things turn bad. He follows just behind Sherlock, their path taking them to pass around the group instead of through. His grip on the shovel tightens, hoping that maybe they'll get out of this alive.

The suspense is killing him and just before they pass the group the strangers stop, all of them and John really gets a look at them now. Most of them have riot gear and clubs, there are two who have lighter armor and are carrying plastic bags with something metal inside. Someone comes forward and addresses them.

"Are you following the arrows?"

John doesn't speak, Sherlock does it for the both of them, "Maybe."

The man, with his scruffy hair and stubble gives them a tentative grin, "We're from the shelter, and you're not too far away from it now."

That catches John's attention, really? Maybe their luck was looking up. Sherlock is still looking at the group with a calculating gaze, gauging them for future reference.

"We'll be on our way," Sherlock announces.

The group is still standing in the middle of the street when they move away, and he finally speaks when out of earshot.

"You were right, traveling in armed groups. The gear looked to be police issued."

"Yes, well, this changes things, the shelter will be expecting us."

John could hear the subtle growl in his voice, "How-"

"They have radios, we're strangers, we will undoubtedly be reported."

"Oh..."

"Come then John, let's see how they are faring."

The rain persists through the last stretch of their journey and the first signs of actual human activity are the barbed sandbag barriers that have been placed staggered along the street. There are piles of zombies piled to the sides and John recognizes where they are, the primary school ahead of them looks miserable with no one tending it for weeks. The moment they cross the threshold from street to behind the barricades they see men filling out of the front of the school.

"We heard there was shelter here," John shouts, he doesn't want confrontation, like war, letting the other party know your intentions would make the meeting go smoother.

Sherlock makes the subtly shift from leading to just behind John's shoulder, no longer the lead but ever present.

One of the men, with his gun held at the ready replied, "Come forward and we'll talk."

John moves with his tall shadow and they're told to stop a few yards from the actual doors.

"Neither of is infected," John offered to try and ease tension.

"If you want to come in you must relinquish your weapons and submit to an exam, our doctors will decide that."

"Alright."

Sherlock doesn't argue, he is thoroughly pleased at how easily John handles himself, his voice projected and confident, no wavering. Not only that but his posture showed no signs of fatigue, this man was quickly becoming the object of his internal fawning. Dropping their weapons they were escorted by three of the men into the building and John felt as though he was in a different world when they were past the into all office and entrance.

People.

Adults, children and was that a dog over there? The dizzying amount of movement, of people moving things, children playing and laughing was like something he'd never thought he'd missed so much. They're lead through hallways, kept in close formation between the men till they reach a small gym that's filled with cots and white curtains strung up to preserve some semblance of privacy. They wait as one of the men breaks off to intercept one of the plain clothed doctors walking around. Another doctor appears, having seen the newcomers and soon they're herded to the end the farthest end of the gym and he feels his chest tighten when he's separated from Sherlock. Alone with the other doctor John does as he's told, removes his backpack and strips to just boxers. He's asked the typical questions of any exam, and when it comes down to he admits that he too is a doctor, which sparks even more questions.

By the time he's done and sent back to the armed guards, he spots Sherlock talking to a man with greying hair. They walk over and it's like Sherlock has a sixth sense because the man turns, arm gesturing to him and speaks.

"John, meet Detective Inspector Lestrade."

They shook hands but Sherlock dominated the conversation immediately afterwards.

"As I was saying, John will right in, being an army doctor he's more than qualified."

He watched with interest as Sherlock gave a somewhat quick summary of his findings and asked to have a lab of his own set up so that he might conclude his findings. All of it, all his demands were said with such an air of confidence and familiarity John was surprised at how quickly Lestrade agreed to it. Their military escort was dismissed and John trailed behind as Lestrade offered to give them the tour before he had other business to attend to.


	5. The Roof

Au. Zombie Apocalypse

(A/N) posting before I rush off to work again, bleh, I'll fix stuff later when I'm not swamped with homework.

* * *

><p>The night shift, John can't remember the last time he had worked the night shift, but like war, it comes easy to him. The school has a minimal amount of medical supplies and he offers up the sheet he'd grabbed days before to be shredded for fresh bandages. If there was one thing he' been hoping to hear they had, it would have been proper sterilizing agents, but he'd have to settle with soap and the box of gloves they used sparingly.<p>

He learns the names of the other doctors quickly Leslie, had frizzy brown hair always tied in a bun and would read to the kids who'd lost their parents. During the initial outbreak she had been working at one of the little family clinics when the news was announced in the waiting room. The other doctor, well, student, named Michael, was in his first year of residency, so John kept the young man going between him and Leslie, hoping he would see and learn as much as possible.

Their doctor's 'office' was in the far corner of the gym against the wall, a blanket had been drawn around the small desk and chair that held papers detailing who was who in the medical bay. John gives a heavy sigh trying to relax into the plastic chair behind the blankets. The lantern on the desk was set to low and John was sorely tempted to fall asleep in that chair. Crossing his arms he thought about the situation they'd walked into. Sure, he was putting his skills to use, but where was Sherlock? The moment the tour had ended Lestrade had asked him to go get familiar with the medical staff and he watched Sherlock stride away with the man. He just walked away, not even a backward glance and that was what irked him the most.

Rubbing at his eyes he wants nothing more than to forget about the hallway, focus on his patients and…and figure out why it was bothering him so much. Staring down at his hands John stays quiet, tries to think of nothing. The blanket rustles and he sees Michael's face pop in.

"Doctor?"

Looking up he acknowledges him, "Hm?"

"Leslie sent me, she said you should go get some rest we can handle it."

"No, I'm alright I can-"

"She also said if you argued with her she'd call one of the guards to escort you," Michael gave him a lopsided grin and shrugged.

Shaking his head John finally relents, he was so used to being in a bed this time of night, maybe having a nightmare, maybe not, but he was used to being beside Sherlock. Leaving the gymnasium the hallways were lit with lanterns and the occasional candle, there were no civilians, the families herded into classrooms and armed men wandered on patrol.

He'd been assigned to a room near the gymnasium in case something went wrong during the night, but he didn't know where Sherlock was staying, it spurred a little extra energy into him and he wandered pass the classroom with the blankets and padding given to him. His eyes adjust to the dimness of the hallways, he sees the murky features of the guards he passes, nodding to them and refusing to ask if they know where his traveling companion was.

John feels as though he's walked the entire length of the school twice, but when he passes by a room with more light then he's seen anywhere else he stops and peers through the window. Leaning over a large table John realizes the tall figure can't be anyone else. He lets himself into what looks like a teachers lounge, there's a small kitchen, a couch and Sherlock has positioned the table near the sink.

"I'm busy go- oh, John."

He feels something like relief and joy flood into his body, sapping away the tiredness in his limbs at the smile that greets him, but it disappears just as quickly off of Sherlock's face.

"John, you should be sleeping."

"I'm fine," he walks up to the table, candles on the counter and a lantern on the table illuminate all the papers Sherlock has spread around them. He can see him turning back to the new information, adding to the already immense information in the notebook.

Pulling a chair up John seats himself across from the man. He watches elegant fingers curled around a sharp pencil flowing across the lined paper. It's mesmerizing as the letters appear, clear as day and he can read each and every word upside down, the man is analyzing what he's seen.

"Lestrade and his men are incompetent," Sherlock muses quietly.

John chuckles, "Med staff is alright, need some training."

"I've been informed that the school is going to be evacuated within the next two days. Military has set up a virus free encampment away from the city. "

"What… they're going to move all these people?"

"It would seem so."

He doesn't reply, just crosses his arms on the table and sits in silence with Sherlock. It takes a while before Sherlock realizes John has fallen asleep. Finishing the last bits of detailing their encounter with the dead at Harry's house, he becomes less focused on making it understandable to Lestrade's men and sets the pencil down to watch John. The man's head is pillowed on his arms, he could see the light blonde hair along his arms, his eyelashes moving slightly as he dreams behind them. Reaching out Sherlock cards a hand through the man's hair, brushing a finger down the man's forehead before returning to his work.

Long into the night Sherlock sat in front of his notes, except he wasn't writing anything, no he was thinking, again. Fingertips touching, just barely resting against his lips he watched John Watson the army doctor, every breath he took, every little movement. It wasn't that he was expecting a nightmare; he was more than willing to stay up to prevent it from happening. There were times when he didn't hesitate to reach out, soothing a hand through ash blond hair, stealing a gesture he knew would seem out of the ordinary anytime of the day.

Why did it have to be so out of the ordinary? It wasn't, only in front of their audience they now had, John in front of his patients, Sherlock in front of Lestrade and his waiting men. Yes, having a hot meal, if meager at best, was nice, but now he knew their 'jobs' were going to pull them apart, across the school and across the lines of expected behavior. Exhaling deeply Sherlock stood from the table, blowing the candles out and leaving one to walk with as he commandeered the couch for his own use.

John woke to a stiff neck, a sore shoulder and an all-around aching feeling in his body. Groaning low he slowly sat up, only somewhat surprised to see Sherlock across the table looking through his notes.

"'morning," he greets the man with a strained smile.

"Good morning John, how did you sleep?"

He glares at the man, hearing the obvious teasing tone and goes about the arduous task of stretching as many muscles as he can without hurting himself. Yawning loudly he scrubbed at his face before finally settling into the chair and watching Sherlock.

"Have you slept at all?"

"A few hours, more than enough."

"Sherlock-"

"Do not worry John, I had plenty of sleep while we were gallivanting about the city."

"I'm starting to think the life of sealing other people's beds may have been a better choice," John grumbles quietly as he slowly stands from the plastic chair.

"It's early enough, you can still get breakfast in the cafeteria," Sherlock informs him.

"Oh, have you eaten yet?"

"No, I'm not hungry."

John resists the urge to glare down at the man, he was insufferable sometimes, scraping by on the most minimal his body could take. Saying goodbye he left the teacher's lounge and tried to remember just which way it was to the cafeteria, his stomach rumbled for him to hurry up.

He would gladly have asked someone the way, if not for the fact there was hardly anyone in sight, not like yesterday when everyone was in such a bustle. John, was thoroughly thankful when he found the reason behind this, passing a set of double doors he glanced in and saw the congregation at tables eating. Mission successful he mused and entered relieved for the sound of conversations buzzing in the air. Grabbing a plate of food he forfeited sitting down to eat in favor of heading for the gym to check on patients.

The day was spent getting the patients ready for transport, the worst of the cases, a broken leg, would be carried on the one car that would be assisting the group and carry as many supplies as possible. Together, Leslie, Michael and he fixed scraped knees, the occasional stomach ache and fixing as many of the little problems as possible before they moved out the following day. John found that the day dragged on worse than the previous day, it was all complaining patients and no quick witted detective following him about.

John gets a rather interesting surprise at lunch that day, he'd convinced Leslie and Michael that he would be fine watching over the staggering five people lying in cots. Sitting on the edge of an empty cot on the other side of the room across from patients John was taking a few moments to himself when he heard the doors to the gymnasium open. Looking up he spotsnSherlock sweeping in, all tall and elegant even in his mud splattered pants and t-shirt. The man was holding a plate of food and honing in on him fast.

"Sherlock?"

"Lunch," the man announces thrusting the plate in front of his face.

Warmth flooded into his chest, a smile lifts the corners of his mouth and he took the plate with the fork stuck into the food.

"Thank you Sherlock."

Waving a pale hand he sat down on the cot opposite John and proceeded to watch the man eat the beans and slightly undercooked rice.

"You didn't have to, I was-"

"Be quiet John and eat."

Again he smiles, his green eyes searching Sherlock's face for some kind of amusement, what he saw there was more serious than playful. Sherlock looks so intent on watching him, he wonderls if maybe the man wants to tell him something. He opens his mouth to speak, but stops when a dark eyebrow quirks up at him. Giving another smile he merely returns to the food in front of him and eats.

When done Sherlock takes the plate, curtly tells John to meet him on the roof of the building whenever he's done with his shift and that he won't be in the lounge, before leaving just as quickly as he'd come. Strange and…worrisome? More than strange, what was Sherlock going to be doing and what was so superfluously important they had to meet on the roof for it? Those questions kept tumbling around the back of his head the rest of the day. And the day seems to drag on forever. The only big event that happens is fixing up a couple of kids who'd gotten into a scrap about something, one thing lead to another and the two were on opposite ends of the gym being treated for split lips and bloody noses.

John was pretty sure time was slowing down within the school, like they were all in some kind of temporal distortion and he was the only one to notice it. Numbly he forges on, sterilizing what tools they have, cleaning bandages, taking stock and chatting with the other staff as they help. Nothing is substantial, not even when he goes to get dinner and sits by himself in the crowded cafeteria, his mind had tried to come up with reasons and ideas for why Sherlock would want to see him on the roof. Everything he comes up with sounds ridiculous even to him, or doesn't sound like Sherlock at all. Eventually he gives up and returns to the gym, only to be shooed away by Leslie in person this time.

It's a god send, a blessing and the moment the gym doors close behind him he's off at a brisk pace to acquire directions to the roof and lie that he just _really_ needs some air without leaving the grounds. The stairs are hidden away in one of the janitor's closets and when the cold air of night hits his face he shivers and pulls his jacket tighter. Spotting Sherlock is easy enough, the man is sitting on one of the low standing air ducts. Swallowing down what doubts he has John pushes forward, taking a seat next to the man. Not too close, not too far away, just enough that they can talk quietly without much effort.

"Good evening John."

"Hey."

Their breath emerges in little white clouds, disappear just as quickly as they had appeared. Shoving his hands deeper into the pockets of his jacket John isn't sure what to say, or maybe he doesn't have to say anything, he's perfectly sitting next to Sherlock and enjoying his company.

"Tomorrow, when we leave the school, I'll be in a different group from you," Sherlock informs calmly.

John stops, his breathing paused for a moment as confusion and something like panic rises in his chest, "What do you mean?"

"Lestrade is splitting the group of survivors, you'll be in the second group with the injured and the families. I will be in the first, clearing a path through the second group."

"But why, I was in the army too, I can-"

"You're a doctor John and the other staff needs you. The groups won't be far apart, trust me."

He's silent for a while, looking down at his dirty shoes and trying not to think about the fact that Sherlock will be at the front lines, scouting ahead for all those people, for him.

"I don't like the idea of this. Why are you telling me this now?"

Sherlock looks down at John, his friend, his companion, the one person he truly trusts in this twisted and messed up world. He moves closer, their sides pressing flush and he leans in close to whisper.

"Because I wanted to spend one more night with you alone."

John can feel his face heating up, his ears burning and not from Sherlock's warm breath. Cautiously he turns his head to look up at Sherlock, the moon is barely hanging in the sky and he swears all of it's rays are focused on the man in front of him. He's pale, translucent almost and his eyes are dark, such a tempting shade of ocean blue and he vaguely thinks that maybe this is all a dream and he'll wake up any minute now. John is slow to respond, but when he does the words feel like molasses, slow and thick.

"Why me?"

Oh he needed to hear it, because just seeing it in Sherlock's face wasn't enough, being so close to Sherlock wasn't enough and hiding his own feelings was killing him. He unconsciously moves closer to hear the man's answer, like it was the answer to the meaning of life and if he missed a single word he'd be consumed with curiosity the rest of his life.

"Because," Sherlock paused, his eyes raking up and down John's form, making sure that this person, this wonderful human being was exactly what his mind and body crave for, "I never want to leave your side."

John hears himself suck in a small breath, it shouldn't feel like this is earth shattering news but it is, hearing Sherlock's deep voice speak the words that have been fluttering in the back of his own mind for days now and he realizes they actually are on the same page.

"Sher-"

There's no time to waste, no time to dally with little details or give what they have a name and Sherlock doesn't waste any of those few seconds closing the gap between them. The reaction is immediate, the moment infinite perfect in the cold night and close proximity and John pushes up into the kiss. It's amazing, its life changing and he knows it's what he's been waiting for. Sherlock is warm and neither of them mind the fact their lips are chapped or that a cold wind picks up and sweeps through their bodies chilling their bones. They part for a breath and John is staring up into eyes etched with reverence, like he's given this man the best gift in the entire world, and maybe he has.

John leans back in a little, ignoring the ache in his shoulder from holding onto himself for warmth and Sherlock meets him halfway, indulging in what they both want over and over up there on the roof. Eventually the chilly air and freezing winds coax them back into the building, where John follows Sherlock to the teacher's lounge and they fit themselves onto the too small couch. Tangled limbs and one blanket may not seem the most comfortable, but John is content to stay like that as long as possible, drinking in the moment and letting it fill him up till sleep pulls him away from consciousness.


End file.
